


Broadway or Bust

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Musicverse [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Flirting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshot following “Write Your Lyrics On My Heartstring”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broadway or Bust

Sherlock roamed the stage and backdrop with the air of a king viewing his kingdom. He pauses here and there to bark an order and then continued without waiting to see if it was followed. If it wasn’t, then there will be hell to pay later, that’s all. He finally came to the main stage where they were practicing breaking down and putting up the set pieces. Most things were roll away or permanent, but some bits had to be dragged down and put up; mainly the pre and post intermission sets. They were about to run a dry tech as well, but that wasn’t what had arrested Sherlock’s attention.

What caught Sherlock’s eye and kept him from continuing on his merry way was one of the grips, who was down to his vest, trousers, and the sweat on his back. The lighting was getting warmed up and the man was practically shining under it. Sherlock stared in awe as he flexed his muscles and moved a large piece of set from one side to the next and repositioned it on the tape X. He moved to grab another, but one of the lead grips shouted at him to move a different one first, questioning the legitimacy of his parentage in the process. The grip in question merely smiled, waved a hand, and did as he was told, leaving Sherlock to shake his head in amusement.

Finally, Sherlock turned from his ogling, adjusting himself in his trousers as his interest in the grip makes itself known, and heads around the group so that he can check on a few issues on that end. Once the lighting and set crew were done, the crew threw themselves into a dress rehearsal and Sherlock settled in as the audience to watch the performance from the house seats. He studied every minute detail, jotting down fresh instructions and scowling at mistakes. He would provide them to Lestrade and the director- some ponce named Moriarty- once the crew was done their first run through.

John Watson, his long time lover and recent husband, settled down beside Sherlock with a sigh.

“Aren’t you needed on stage as a grip?” Sherlock teased lightly.

“Oh, noticed that did you?” John replied, smiling with pride. A few years ago a mugger had rendered him a trembling mess with a psychosomatic limp. Now his hands rarely shook and he hadn’t used his cane in years.

“Hard not to with you stomping around in a vest looking like you’ve just lifted weights.”

“They were short a man so I pitched in, I’ll pop up and help again during the show. They’ll manage without me for now.”

“Does that grip know he was ordering around one of the writers, who also happens to be the composers lover?”

“The composer’s _husband_ , and no, I doubt it.”

“Hmmmm.”

“What are you thinking, Sherlock?” John asked, suspicion in his voice.

“That he’ll be shocked to find us snogging after you’ve gotten all sweaty again after the strike Saturday night.”

“Exhibitionist.”

“You love it.”

“I’m already hard.”

“I love it when you’re lewd.”

“Saying I’m hard isn’t being lewd. Being lewd would be saying my cock’s leaking in my pants and I can’t wait to get you back to our hotel to bend you over the first available _surface_.”

“I stand corrected.”

“Good, because when I’m done with you, you won’t be able to sit.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair and adjusted his erection once more. One of the cast members happened to be looking and flushed, stuttering their line.

“Do you think he thought that was for him?” John asked in amusement.

“I hope not. It’s such terrible red tape when you put actors in traction.”

“That was only once!”

“He just wanted an autograph,” Sherlock replied with a roll of his eyes.

“On his bare _arse_.”

“I made him wash it first.”

“Bloody hell, I hate you sometimes.”

“No you don’t. You’re obsessed with me. Your therapist said so.”

“My therapist wants to sleep with us both, she said so last week. I forgot to mention.”

“Well there goes another one. You could always just talk to _me_ about your problems.”

“Sure, we’ll start now. So, Dr. Sherlock, yesterday my husband made a fresh batch of ink, but since the sink was full of dirty dishes that he apparently doesn’t know how to wash, he did it in our hotel tub and now the tub is purple. How do I tell him to be more conscientious of other people’s things?”

“You don’t. You respect his art and the fact it pays the bills and gets you off. See? Problem solved. I’m rather good at this.”

John dissolved into smothered laughter beside Sherlock, who smiled contentedly and wrote down a few more things that the actors needed to do better or stop doing all together. He was going to enjoy producing Broadway shows with John, even if Americans didn’t know shite about tea. Hell, it just gave him a good excuse to listen to John sing while he brewed their own, which led to sex, which led to composing music, which led to John writing lyrics or offering him improvements, which led to arguments, which led to sex…

John sighed beside Sherlock and gently entwined their fingers, tapping out the beat as the soloist started to warble on stage. Sherlock’s heart joined in on the sudden staccato.

“Your music is _brilliant_ ,” John breathed.

Sherlock smiled and said nothing. Nothing needed to be said.


End file.
